


Wait For Spring

by facethefall



Series: Wait For Spring [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facethefall/pseuds/facethefall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Kurt and Blaine are freshmen in college and are invited to play in the Cape Cod Baseball League.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was part of some original fic that I wrote and never finished, but I tweaked it around to make it work for Kurt/Blaine. The Cape Cod Baseball League is a league in Cape Cod, Massachusetts during the summer for only the best college baseball players in the country.

The first thing Kurt notices is the salt and the sand. The two hour plane ride gave him a stuffy nose and he can still smell the salt. His plane landed in Boston and that just smelled like city, cars and grime, but after the hour and a half drive it smells like the ocean and there's sand covering the roads. He crosses over a big metal bridge, tugboats and sailboats so tall it looks like they might scrape his car, and hello. Welcome to the Cape.  
  
He's in a piece of junk rental, the cheapest one they had because he's going to need it for the whole summer. He saved up his money at school to be able to rent a car for the whole time he‘s here.  He knows it's hard to make friends with his teammates, knows that most of them share the same mindset as his small town in Ohio, and he doesn't want to worry about bumming rides.  The car rental place gave him a deal since he would be renting it for two months.  The air conditioner doesn't work and neither does the tape player, so he just drives with the windows down, feeling the salt slide into his hair. He turns the radio on, but nothing really comes in, just static and someone relaying the out of town baseball scores in a funny accent, no r's and long vowels. He flicks the radio off. He'd rather just listen to the ocean anyway.  
  
He passes little seafood shacks and dingy motels.  The tourist season is just starting, school will be letting out in a week or two, and he sees families walking along the sidewalk, mothers holding brightly colored beach bags and yelling to their small children to stay close.  Kurt's never actually seen the ocean, growing up in the middle of Ohio will do that to a kid, and he'd be lying if he said that didn't play a small part in his choice to play for the CCBL.  
  
When he finally reaches the field he'll call home for the next two months, it looks more like a high school baseball diamond.  The only thing that tells him he's in the right place is the sign proclaiming  _Lowell Park, Home of the Cotuit Kettleers_.  He drives into the parking lot, tires crunching on the gravel, and he realizes he's later than he thought.  The entire field is filled with maroon jerseys practicing drills, white block  _Kettleers_  written across all of their chests.  
  
He grabs his gym bag out of his trunk and slams it shut, mildly surprised that it closes on the first try.  He turns to his side, prepared to run straight to the field to find his coach and apologize for being late, making up some excuse about his plane being late or running into road work, when he slams into the kid scrambling out of the car next to him.  They both hit the ground, dirt and rocks lodging into their palms.  Kurt's Adidas bag is laying at his side and he watches as this guy tries to catch his breath.  
  
"Hey, sorry!  Didn't look where I was going," the kid says.  He's got dark hair that's peaking out from his Indians hat.  Kurt notices he's already in uniform, though.  Probably smart enough to change at the airport or in the car.  He jumps up quickly and reaches a hand down to Kurt.  
  
"Blaine Anderson, catcher, Ohio State," he tells Kurt the three most important things about himself.  Kurt takes the offered hand and is hoisted up until he's standing right next to Blaine, his arm thrown around Kurt's shoulder.  
  
"Kurt Hummel, starting pitcher, University of Cincinnati."  He feels sort of ridiculous out of uniform, but hopes his manager will let him change after he checks in.  
  
"Oh, cool.  Battery mates, huh?  Nice to meet you, then."  Kurt notices that Blaine is a little shorter than he is, but Kurt is definitely skinnier, not that that's hard to accomplish.  His manager at school keeps trying to talk him into putting some weight on, tells him it'll help with endurance.  But Kurt's mostly ignored him.  
  
They walk in step, Blaine in cleats and Kurt in Converse sneakers, out onto the green grass to find their manager.  They find him, scribbling something down onto his clip board, a tall broad man with shorts that Kurt wishes were a little longer.  
  
"It's okay, boys.  Lots of these kids were late, too.  I'm just gonna assume you got lost.  Hummel and Anderson, right?  Yup, you're the last two.  After you get changed in the locker room," he eyes Kurt, "get to the outfield and start practicing.  I'm Ken Tanaka, your manager."  Before Kurt can apologize for being late, their manager is already blowing his whistle and grabbing a bat to hit some fly balls to the players in the outfield.  Kurt rushes off to the locker room to change, Blaine to the infield to put his gear on.  
  
//  
  
Kurt’s not your typical baseball player.  He doesn’t go without washing his socks, no matter his winning streak.  He takes time to make sure his hair looks good before carefully tugging his cap down to his ears.  He always puts on sunscreen, with a moisturizer, before any sort of daytime activity.  His teammates in high school and college, and he’s sure now in the Cape Cod League, know he’s different.  His voice is high and he never accepts the numbers local girls give him.  Not that it means anything really, but it’s always enough to get the other guys talking.  They never say anything, at least not to his face.  Kurt’s fastball hits 97 on the radar gun and his curve turns the batter’s knees into jelly.  He could be into dressing up mannequins and taking them on dates and his teammates wouldn’t give him shit.  “ _Yeah, you know pitchers, man.  None of them are normal, anyway_ ”. As long as he’s out there every fifth day.  
  
He’s drawn to Blaine almost immediately.  He knows they’ll be spending a lot of time together, Blaine’s their starting catcher, Kurt‘s their ace pitcher.  After their run-in in the parking lot, they meet again on the field, Kurt feeling instantly more at home in his knee high socks and button up jersey.  Blaine’s uniform is almost completely covered by his catcher’s gear, pads and protectors weighing him down.  He’s got his mask in his hand though and his helmet on backwards, and Kurt can see some of his dark brown curls sticking out of the side.  Blaine smiles and Kurt is momentarily blinded.  
  
“So, Kurt, we meet again.  Coach said just basic drills today, get you stretched out,” and Kurt actually blushes at that.  “So let’s just do some long toss, okay?”  
  
Kurt nods along and smacks a fist into his glove a few times.  He’s had this glove for years, it’s perfectly molded to his hand, but he needs somewhere to let his nervous energy out.  He moves his neck back and forth, getting imaginary kinks out as Blaine walks across the field.  
  
“Okay, Hummel.  Show me what you’ve got.”  
  
Blaine walks across the outfield, a dozen yards or so away from Kurt, and slides easily into his crouch and puts his mask on his head over his helmet.  Kurt wishes he’d put that mask over his face, it’s the only chance Kurt has to concentrate.  
  
Kurt lazy throws the ball towards Blaine, hears the soft ‘thud’ when it lands in his glove.  There’s teammates all around him, pitchers throwing in the outfield, infielders turning double plays on the dry dirt.  He’s only dimly aware of the fly balls that the outfielders are shagging beside him, but he can’t turn his concentration away from Blaine.  
  
“Hey, did you talk to Coach Tanaka yet?  Do you know who you’re rooming with?” Blaine easily slides into conversation and Kurt’s a little jealous at how easy it is for him.  
  
“Uh, no.  Haven’t had the chance to yet.  Just changed into my uniform and got out here,” Kurt says as he jumps up slightly to catch the ball that Blaine tosses above his head.  
  
Blaine’s face lights up.  “Well I talked to him.  Turns out he wants his starting catcher and best pitcher to really be in sync.  You’re gonna be sick of me by the end of the summer.”  Blaine sticks his tongue out slightly and makes a goofy face.  Kurt feels his heart go into his throat and he tries to laugh, but it mostly comes out as a choked cough.  
  
They mostly toss the ball lightly back and forth, talking about favorite baseball players and their home towns.  
  
"I can't believe we grew up two hours away from each other!  It's too bad that Dalton only played private schools.  We could have met years ago," Blaine says.  Kurt is a little unnerved over the fact that Blaine isn't treating him any differently.  He hasn't once pulled back from Kurt touching him or ignored him to talk to the other players.  
  
They play catch in silence until he hears their manager call out that they can leave early to settle in.  Blaine pops up out of his crouch immediately and trots over to Kurt and bumps their shoulders together.  Blaine is covered in a light sweat and Kurt should find that disgusting, he really should, but he can’t get the thought out of his head that he wants to  _taste_.  
  
“After we get changed, you wanna follow me to the house?  It’s only a couple minutes away, I dropped our host parents off there before I headed over to the field.”  Kurt has to concentrate on the crunching sounds their cleats make in the gravel, can’t chance looking at Blaine’s skin again.  
  
  
  
Kurt follows Blaine to the house they’ll be living in for the summer.  It turns out Blaine doesn’t actually have a car, he just borrowed the car from their host parents after they picked him up from the airport.  He pulls up to a big white house with blue shutters and a sailboat in the front yard.  It’s exactly like Kurt pictured the houses on the Cape.  
  
Blaine turns off the ignition and slowly gets out of the car, his knees slightly bothering him after a long practice.  He grabs his luggage and waits for Kurt at the bottom of the driveway.  
  
Kurt notices that Blaine only has one suitcase with him, probably only packing t-shirts, shorts, and swimming trunks.  Kurt spent hours packing, finally deciding on three suitcases filled with clothes that he would absolutely need during the summer.  He pulls one bag over his shoulder, and grabs the other two to roll up the driveway.  
  
Blaine laughs when he sees Kurt’s three bags. “You realize we’ll only be playing baseball while we’re here, right?” he says while gesturing to Kurt’s luggage.  
  
“Yeah, I know.  But I like to be prepared for all fashion situations,” Kurt says with a shrug.  He’s used to his teammates ragging on him for his fashion choices.  
  
But Blaine only slings an arm around his shoulder.  “That’s probably a good idea.  I only brought t-shirts and shorts.  Here, let me help you with that.”  Blaine grabs one of Kurt’s bags and when their hands touch, Kurt swears he feels sparks.  
  
They walk up the short drive way and knock on the solid white door.  A middle aged woman opens the door, wiping her hands on the blue and white apron tied around her waist.  
  
“Hello, boys!  I’m Sheila Howell, but please just call me Sheila.  My husband’s Carl.  We’re so excited to have you!”  she says excitedly while pulling them inside.  Mr. and Mrs. Howell have been hosting Cape Cod League players ever since their own children went off to college and moved out of the house.  She shows them downstairs, a completely furnished basement with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a common living area.  
  
“Here you are, boys.  Now, don’t be strangers.  The kitchen’s always fully stocked upstairs and Carl is always up for talking baseball,” she says before leaving them to go back upstairs.  Sheila Howell has been doing this long enough to know how most of the kids operate and talking to their host parents is never high on the list of things to do.  
  
Kurt and Blaine go into their respective rooms to unpack.  Their rooms are identical.  A bed against the wall in the middle of the room with dark green sheets, an oak dresser off to the side, and a poster of Fenway Park tacked up to the wall.  Kurt takes his time to unpack all of his clothes, hanging mostly everything up in the closet.  It doesn’t take him as long as he thought, he’s had his system for organizing his closet for years now, and soon he’s all unpacked and just standing awkwardly in the center of the room.   Kurt still can’t quite get over the fact that Blaine hasn’t alienated himself from him yet, he’s had years of teammates giving him the cold shoulder, so he sits down on his bed and leafs through one of the many Vogues he packed.  
  
“Now granted, Marion Cotillard was Vogue’s best cover from last year, but come on!  We’re a mile from the beach,” Blaine says, leaning against Kurt’s door frame.  He’s already changed into his swim trunks, large orange and brown plaid shorts slung low on his hips, and he’s tossing a ball from his left hand to his right, the white and red blurring together.  Kurt can’t take his eyes off of the small sliver of skin where his almost see-through white t-shirt doesn’t quite meet his swimming trunks.  
  
“Uh, yeah.  Beach, sure.  Gimme a minute to get changed,” Kurt says, still a little in shock at Blaine recognizing the Vogue cover.  
  
“K, you mind driving?  Otherwise I’ll give one of the guys a call,” Blaine calls over his shoulder as he walks out of the room.  
  
“No, it’s no problem,” Kurt calls back.  He quickly runs through his wardrobe, thinking about what could be considered appropriate beachwear.  He quickly decides on his well-worn Bearcats tee and black bondage shorts.  He grabs his keys before going out into the living room to find Blaine.  
  
“Nice shorts,” Blaine says and he cocks an eyebrow at the crisscrossing fabric on the back of Kurt’s shorts.  
  
“Well the sun’s gonna set in a minute, it’s not actually like we’re going swimming,” Kurt tries to rationalize.  
  
Blaine holds his hands up.  “Hey, looks good to me.  You ready to go?”  
  
Kurt swallows slowly.  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”  
  
//  
  
Blaine directs them to the beach without any problem, having already gotten directions from some of their teammates.  They get there just as the sun’s going down, blue and pink and red sliding over the grey ocean.  They walk through the sand, only slightly burning the bottoms of their feet, until they run into Finn Hudson, the team’s centerfielder.  He’s got a cute blonde girl on his lap and a cooler full of beers at his side.  
  
“Hey, Hudson.  Mind if I grab a couple?” Blaine asks while thumbing at the beer.  
  
“Yeah, dude.  No problem.  Have you met…” Finn trails off as he tries to remember the blonde girls name, but fails miserably.  
  
“Quinn,” the girl supplies, only mildly annoyed.  
  
“Yeah, Quinn!” Finn smiles brightly.  
  
Both Kurt and Blaine nod a greeting to the new girl and Blaine grabs them a few beers.  
  
“I don’t suppose there are any wine coolers in there,” Kurt says, mostly to himself.  He’s surprised when he hears Blaine chuckle.  
  
“Nope, don’t think so.”  
  
They walk through the cooling sand until they reach the line where the crabgrass meets the sand.  They sit down with their backs up against the rickety wooden fence and the crabgrass cuts into Kurt’s arm.  He tries not to think about how dirty his shorts are getting.  
  
Everyone around them has found a local girl to make out with, laying on blankets tucked into the sand.  And maybe more than that judging by the sounds their third baseman Noah Puckerman is making, his hands tangled in long brown hair.  
  
They pop open their beers, cheap light stuff that an older host brother must have bought.  Kurt’s never really been much of a drinker, but he takes a sip, hoping to relax around Blaine.  They sit in comfortable silence, watching the waves break against the sand.  
  
“So, do you think you’re gonna get drafted this summer?” Blaine asks out of nowhere.  He’s making abstract patterns with his toes in the sand.  
  
“Um, not sure.  I know pitchers usually go pretty early, especially power pitchers, but I think I’ll go back for my sophomore year, anyway.” Kurt doesn’t tell him that he’s terrified of playing for a major league team and everything that comes with it.  There are no openly gay players in Major League Baseball and Kurt doesn’t think he’s ready to be the first.  His hold on his beer can tightens.  “What about you?”  
  
“Mmm,” Blaine hums, thinking. “Maybe, I don’t know.  Catchers who can hit for power usually go in the first couple of rounds.  I know we had a bunch of scouts towards the end of our season.  And the Cape League has scouts at every game.  So there’s a good chance I could.”  Kurt nods at that, not sure what else to say.  He doesn’t want to hurt Blaine’s chances at getting drafted and he’s not dumb enough to think that has nothing to do with being drafted.  He doesn’t want people to start talking about Blaine, too.  
  
“Hey, Blaine.  I have to tell you something.  And please, don’t freak out.  But I just feel like I need to be honest with you and I don’t want to mess up your summer,” Kurt says.  Blaine’s eyes instantly soften and he puts his beer down to focus solely on Kurt.  
  
“Kurt, is everything okay?”  
  
Kurt takes a deep breath.  “Everything’s fine.  But here’s the thing.  I’m gay.” Kurt sneaks a quick glance at Blaine, who’s expression hasn’t changed.  Kurt continues,  “I don’t know if you’re just oblivious to that, but I’m kinda sure it’s pretty obvious.  And I don’t want you associating with me to start rumors about you, and then have that affect your chances at getting drafted.  I’m used to not having anyone.  I’ll do okay on my own.”  Kurt finishes his little speech, proud of himself for not allowing any of the tears to spill onto his cheeks.  He turns to Blaine for the first time, tries to read his expression.  He looks confused and maybe a little hurt.  
  
“Kurt, why would you think that mattered to me?”  And okay, that’s maybe the last thing Kurt expected to hear.  “My high school had a no-harassment policy and I’ve just carried that on into my life now.  I’d never judge you.  I’m actually really amazed at how strong you are to be able to be yourself.  You don’t hide who you are,” Blaine pauses.  “I’m gay, too, Kurt.”  
  
Kurt chokes on absolutely nothing and he momentarily thinks that he’s glad he wasn’t taking a sip of his drink.  He tries to form words, anything really, but he just stares bug-eyed at Blaine.  
  
“Yeah, I am.  I’m out to my friends and family, and my teammates at Ohio know.  I haven’t told anyone here yet, maybe I will if it comes up.  But I’m just trying to focus on baseball, ya know?” Kurt just nods dumbly, still trying to figure out what to say.  
  
“Have you read Patti LuPone’s new book?” and Kurt mentally slaps himself because really?  This gorgeous baseball player, his teammate, just came out to him and that’s all he can think to say?  He really hates his brain sometimes.  
  
Blaine just looks at him before laughing, really truly laughing.  Maybe it was the perfect thing for Kurt to say because now the ice is completely broken.  
  
“Of course I have.”  
  
Kurt has a million questions for Blaine, but all of them will have to wait because Finn is stumbling up to them, wavering a little bit before falling to his knees in the sand.  
  
“Guy, guys, guys.  You need to bring me home, right?  I’m drunk, I can’t drive.  And practice.  In the morning.  It’s very important,” Finn says, fragments of sentences strung together and not making sense.  
  
“You threw up on the blonde girl while she was giving you head, huh?” Blaine says while laughing.  “Yeah, yeah.  We’ll bring you home.  Let‘s go.”  They each grab Finn by an arm and lift him up until he’s leaning on both of them, gravity threatening to bring them all down.  
  
//  
  
It’s a perfect June night.  The fog off the ocean lightly blankets the field and there are so many stars in the sky that it might just save the town of Cotuit money to turn the lights off all together.  Admission is free and it’s school vacation.  Dads are in fold-up lawn chairs, green and white plastic patchwork across the back of the seats, talking loudly with  the other men about the AL East. Moms sit on the grass with their children, blue and red popsicles staining the kids' mouth, reading the Cotuit Kettleers media guide to them as if it's a bed time story.  
  
It’s the team’s first week playing games together, hovering right around .500.  They win each of Kurt’s start, but their other pitchers are mediocre and the team hasn’t been hitting much.  
  
Kurt’s on the mound tonight, trying to protect a 3-1 lead in the 9th.  He hasn’t thrown 100 pitches yet, usually the cut-off for starters and when the manager will take him out of the game for one of the middle relievers.  Kurt’s been on his game tonight, strike out after strike out, and now he’s one out away from throwing a complete game and getting a win for his team.  
  
He gets back-to-back foul balls on the hitter at the plate.  Kurt stares behind the plate, looks right in at Blaine and waits for his signs.  Blaine taps one finger twice on his left thigh and Kurt knows what that means.  Fastball, high and inside.  Kurt brings his glove up to his face, lets only his eyes peer out over the top of the leather.  The batter taps his toes into the dirt, slightly wags the tip of his bat in the air.  Blaine’s eyes are obstructed by his catcher’s mask, but Kurt knows the intensity that’s hiding.  He concentrates on Blaine’s glove, knows the spot he has to hit.  He kicks his leg up and brings his arm back, gripping the ball tightly until he releases it at the last second.  The ball flies through the air, making it to the plate before the batter even has a chance.  He swings and Kurt can hear the ball land solidly into Blaine’s glove.  
  
Blaine’s up and out of his crouch, running up to Kurt before the opposing player even has a chance to leave the batter’s box.  He ripped off his catcher’s mask at some point and Kurt can see how big his smile is.  He runs up to Kurt and pulls him into a tight hug, the infielders and outfielders quickly making their way to the pitcher’s mound the slap Kurt on the back.  Kurt can’t stop smiling and he slightly buries his face into Blaine’s neck before pulling away and accepting congratulations from his teammates.  
  
Blaine’s shaking his shoulders and looking at him right in the eyes.  “A complete game, Kurt!  That was amazing.  We have to celebrate tonight.  Maybe I can talk Puck into using his fake ID to buy champagne or something!”  Blaine seems even more excited than Kurt, bouncing up and down as the team leaves the field.  
  
Kurt just smiles.  “Blaine.  I just threw 98 pitches, most of them hard enough to tear my shoulder from my body.  I just want to go home and sleep.”  
  
Blaine nods along.  “Yeah, sure, of course.  No problem!  I’ll drive.”  
  
//  
  
Nothing has happened between Kurt and Blaine since the conversation on the beach.  A silent agreement seems to come about between them that this summer is for focusing only on baseball.  Well, that seems to be the agreement Blaine has come to.  Kurt can think of some things he’d like to be different.  
  
He thinks of a lot of things while he’s in his room that night, still slightly high off of the win.  
  
He thinks of dark brown hair tucked into a baseball cap, curling slightly against the back of a neck turned brown from days on the beach and the field.  
  
He thinks of wrapping his fingers in the hem of a maroon jersey,  _Anderson_  written in white letters across the back, pulling and twisting his fingers until they get caught and he can’t get them out.  
  
He thinks of a long lean body, muscles that formed from being on a baseball diamond, not stuck in a gym.  Freckles along the underside of arms, playing connect-the-dots like he did when he was a kid, only this time with his tongue and not Crayola markers.  
  
He thinks of dirt smudged uniforms, water droplets falling out of Gatorade cups and onto a chin, a flash of too white teeth, swim trunks low on hips, thinks of who is sleeping in the room next to his.  
   
And then he doesn't think of anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

“I never imagined the ocean could be  _this_  cold,” Kurt exclaims each time a wave crashes around his toes in the surf, water splashing up his legs. The sun’s reflection off the ocean is so bright that even with sunglasses Kurt is squinting. It’s a gorgeous day, though. The air is hot, but the breeze off the ocean is cool and keeps it from getting too warm.  
  
Blaine had practically begged Kurt to come to the beach with a few of their teammates before they had to go to the field for the game later that day.  _“Please, Kurt. I’ll do your chores for the week! I don’t want to go if you’re not going to be there.”_ Kurt pulls off his round sunglasses and rests them on the bill of his Indians cap, watching as Puck and Finn have a seaweed fight. He laughs as one of the slimy balls hits the side of Puck’s face and Finn laughs so hard that Kurt can‘t tell if the saltwater on Finn‘s face is from the ocean or from tears.  
  
“Come on, Kurt, come in!” Blaine shouts, a few yards out in the water. The water comes up to his chest and he laughs as a wave crashes down on top of him. His dark wet hair is plastered to his head and his eyes are slightly red from the stinging saltwater.  
  
“My toes feel like ice cubes. No, thank you,” Kurt calls back. He already applied his sunscreen and even though he’s wearing a t-shirt and a hat, he knows the late morning sun will fry his skin. Blaine’s skin looks perfect, though. Wet and tan and going on for miles.  
  
“You get used to the cold, I promise! It’s really not that bad,” Blaine says as he jumps up and wraps an arm around Finn’s neck and tries to pull him under the water. Finn holds strong though, before putting all his weight into dunking Blaine’s head into the water. Blaine sputters and laughs as he comes up for air and Kurt wishes it was as easy for him. He doesn’t want to ruin his hair and he doesn’t want to reapply his sunblock, but he knows that if he was playing these teasing games in the water it wouldn’t go over as well with his teammates. They tolerate him, some more than others, but they’re still 19 year old boys. Nineteen year old baseball playing boys. Part of Kurt wishes he could pull off being straight as easily as Blaine does, to not even have a questioning look thrown his way. To know that if he got drafted, he’d fit in right away, he wouldn’t have to worry about the macho-filled world of a Major League clubhouse. But the other part of Kurt feels sorry for Blaine, sorry that he has to hide who he is in order to do what he loves.  
  
Blaine starts to swim in to the shore despite his teammates yelling at him to stay. He calls back a, “see you guys at the field!” before standing up and making his way closer to Kurt. His swim trunks are low on his hips and Kurt’s eyes follow the dark trail of hair on Blaine’s lower stomach before diverting his eyes to the water where Puck is on Finn’s shoulders playing chicken. It’s a mistake, though, because he suddenly feels Blaine’s body connect with his and before he knows it he’s lying in the soft sand, looking up at Blaine. He has a hand on either side of Kurt’s shoulders and his head is blocking out the sun, the bright rays having a halo effect.  
  
“Blaine! Let me up, you’re dripping all over me!” Kurt cries as he feels the freezing saltwater start to seep through his clothes. Blaine just laughs, knocking their knees together before jumping up, offering a hand down to Kurt.  
  
“Sorry, you were all distracted. That’s what you get for not going in the water.” Kurt takes the offered hand and is pulled up, Blaine’s arm thrown across his shoulder, giving Kurt flashbacks to the day they first met. They walk in step through the hot sand and up to the weather beaten planks of the boardwalk. When they make it to the parking lot the asphalt burns the bottoms of Kurt’s feet, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Not when Blaine’s side is pressed against his, soaking wet and feeling like there’s no layer of clothing between them.  
  
“I get first dibs on the shower when we get back,” Blaine says as they slide into Kurt’s car, fake leather burning their backs and thighs. Kurt starts the car, steps on the clutch and eases into first gear.  
  
“We’ll see about that,” Kurt says with a laugh. Blaine steals his baseball cap and puts it on backwards over his wet hair. He smiles and it’s like Kurt’s staring directly into the sun over the ocean. He blinks and Blaine is already poking at the radio dial, trying to find something through all of the static.  
  
//  
  
Kurt knows Blaine is home sick. He hears his mumbled conversations late at night through the thin walls separating their rooms. Blaine is always the tough guy on the field, strong and imposing in his catcher’s gear. But Kurt can hear his words drift over,  _“How’s Tucker doing, mom? You and dad are walking him every day, right?”_  and it makes Kurt fall a little more in love with him.  
  
He hears the conversation end with a ‘goodnight’ and sees his phone light up with a new text not a minute later.  
  
 **From: Blaine**  
Hey, you awake?  
  
 **From: Kurt**  
Yeah, can’t sleep.  
  
Kurt doesn’t mention the fact that he could hear most of Blaine’s conversation with his parents. He hears Blaine’s bed creak and then socked feet shuffle across the hard wood floor. He sees a Blaine-shaped shadow standing in his doorway, awkwardly moving his weight from foot to foot, a question hanging in the air that he doesn’t want to ask. Kurt lifts up the edge of his blanket, inviting Blaine in. Kurt knows it’s too dark to see anything, but he swears he can make out Blaine’s white teeth as he smiles.  
  
Blaine pads in and quietly worms his way into Kurt’s sheets until his back is pressed up against Kurt’s chest and their heads share a pillow. Kurt’s breath stutters in his throat and he wonders if Blaine can feel it on the back of his neck.  
  
“Thank you,” Blaine mumbles, sleep already overcoming him. Kurt knows he won’t be sleeping soundly tonight, not with this boy in bed with him. He hopes for a few hours at least so he won’t be dead tired at practice tomorrow morning. His hands itch to wrap themselves around Blaine, over his hip and across his chest, but Kurt just lets them lay at his side.  
  
“Goodnight, Blaine.”  
  
//  
  
It’s one of the few days they have completely off; no practice, no game, no work. Kurt doesn’t have much planned, his only real goal is turning his alarm clock off and sleeping past seven.  
  
  
  
It’s barely ten o’clock when he feels his bed shaking and hears, “come on, Kurt. Get up!” Kurt groans and rolls over, comfortable in his bed and not wanting to move from it. But Blaine is relentless and is now on his feet, jumping on the bed in an attempt to shake Kurt awake.  
  
“Come on, let’s go. We don’t want to be late!” Blaine says and he jumps down from the bed. Kurt sighs with relief until he realizes that Blaine only left the bed in order to pull open the blinds on Kurt’s window, letting the bright morning light in. Kurt reaches for a pillow to cover his eyes, but Blaine tugs it away from him before lightly hitting him on the head.  
  
“All right, all right. I’m up,” Kurt mumbles as he sits up in bed. Blaine’s already dressed, loose cargo shorts and a deep maroon t-shirt that reminds Kurt of their home jerseys. His curls are fluffy and product-free and Kurt can tell he’s already showered. “What’s so important that I have to be awake right now?” Kurt asks, sleep still in his voice.  
  
“Well, if I told you, that would ruin the surprise. Wear something casual, definitely a hat because we’re going to be in the sun for most of the afternoon. Now, let’s go!” Blaine takes Kurt’s hand, holding on a little longer than necessary after he pulls Kurt out of bed and pushes him towards the bathroom.  
  
“The train ride is almost an hour, so hurry up!” Blaine shouts to Kurt through the bathroom door. Kurt turns the water on in the shower and lets it warm up just slightly, thinking about where they could be going. They’re taking the T, which means they’re going into Boston. Kurt had only seen the airport and the highway and he’s suddenly very excited by the possibility of all the shopping he can do.  
  
  
  
“This is our stop!” Blaine announces and quickly pulls Kurt up from his hard plastic seat. They’ve been on the train for over a half an hour, with Blaine giving Kurt no clues as to what they’re doing. The train comes to an abrupt stop, Kurt and Blaine fumbling together as their balance is thrown off, before the door are flung open. They’re underground still and Kurt feels slightly claustrophobic, but soon Blaine is pulling him up a flight of stairs and he’s shielding his eyes from the sun. They step outside and Kurt lets the fresh air fill his lungs. Blaine pauses at the top of the step, looks left then right, before nodding his head to the left. “C’mon, this way.”  
  
There are people everywhere and he hears faint calls of “Selling tickets? Need tickets? Got-cha tickets, here” as they pass a fast food restaurant, a bank, a small convenience store. He feels like he might get lost in the sea of people, everyone pushing in the same direction.  
  
They turn the corner and Kurt sees an overpass with cars zooming underneath. Blaine pulls him off to the side, just slightly out of the way of the hundreds of people surrounding them. “Look,” he says and points.  
  
Kurt follows his finger, passed the overpass and passed the billboards and passed the people, and then he see it. Sees the huge lights and the green of the monster. Kurt shakes his head and whispers, “you brought me to a Red Sox game?”  
  
Blaine nods excitedly as he pushes them to start walking again. Cars are flying underneath their feet and Kurt feels like he might have vertigo.  
  
“Well, I know we’ve both been to Indians games before, and those are fun, but they’re nothing like this. I mean, it’s Fenway, Kurt,” and Kurt knows. The park has been around for almost 100 years and it’s every baseball fans dream to be able to see a game here.  
  
They walk over to the park, handing an old man with gray hair their tickets. Kurt takes a deep breath and smells baseball; hot dogs, popcorn, beer, peanuts,  _summer_. Kurt thinks he might hear Blaine apologize for only being able to get bleacher seats on such short notice, but Kurt can’t really hear him. They’re walking up the ramp and all Kurt sees is green; the green of the seats and the green of the grass and the green of the big wall out in left field. Kurt wonders how it can be so much smaller than it seems on TV, yet so big at the same time.  
  
They find their seats right as the national anthem ends. They sit down as a voice booms through the speakers announcing the starting lineups. Kurt bounces his feet, energy and excitement welling up inside of him.  
  
“Thank you,” Kurt tells Blaine, eyes leaving the field only to make contact with the boy sitting next to him.  
  
“Are you happy?” Blaine asks, genuine hope written across his face, and all Kurt can do is laugh.  
  
//  
  
It’s an early morning in the first week of July and Kurt should really be asleep. They had played an extra innings game the night before, lost in 12 innings to the Chatham A’s, and Kurt hadn’t gone to sleep until after 1. The light is peaking in through the white blinds that cover his window and he looks over at his alarm clock. 6:24am. Kurt groans and rolls over, willing himself to fall back asleep, when he swears he hears the TV coming from the living room. The door to his room is open just a crack and he can see multi-colored light slipping in. He sighs and throws the covers off of his body, assuming Blaine forgot to turn the TV off before going to bed.  
  
He sits up, pausing to crack his back and stretch his arms over his head. A loud yawn escapes his mouth before he slowly pulls himself up and out of bed, slowly making his way out of his room and into the living room.  
  
What he doesn’t expect to find is Blaine sitting on the couch, legs curled up underneath him, still in pajamas and wearing his glasses, his hair fluffy first thing in the morning and not weighed down with sweat after a three hour baseball game. Kurt thinks that this is his favorite part of the day, seeing Blaine like this.  
  
He looks up from the TV, bowl of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch in his hands and a light sheet wrapped around his body, and smiles brightly at Kurt. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Thought the TV was low enough. Wanna come sit? ESPN Classic is airing Fisk’s home run,” Blaine explains. He takes one last bite and puts the empty bowl down on the floor and lifts the blanket up, inviting Kurt to sit next to him and share body heat.  
  
Kurt’s used to this. Blaine is very affectionate with everyone he meets. A pat on the back after a nice catch, a quick hug after an important home run. It’s like he doesn’t have any boundaries when it comes to personal space.  
  
Kurt accepts the invitation and quickly scoots in next to Blaine, the blanket dropping across Kurt’s shoulders. It’s definitely not necessary, the temperature regularly hitting 80 degrees before seven in the morning, but Kurt can feel the skin on their arms and legs pressed together and that’s really all that matters.  
  
Blaine is mouthing along to the broadcaster’s call of the homerun (if it stays fair…homerun!) when the sheet slowly slips off of Blaine’s shoulder, revealing his thin white t-shirt. Kurt’s never been this up close and personal with Blaine’s skin before. He’s seen bits and pieces here and there, they do sometimes change at the incredibly small locker room at the field, and those images are burned into Kurt’s brain forever. But this, this skin touching skin contact is new and Kurt can’t seem to tear his eyes away from where Blaine’s upper arm disappears into his shirt.  
  
Blaine fidgets just a little, leans to the right and helps the ball stay fair, and then Kurt sees something completely new. There’s a light pink line on Blaine’s skin running from underneath Blaine’s bicep, up and under his shirt.  
  
“Where’d you get that scar?” Kurt asks, motioning vaguely towards Blaine’s arm. Blaine twists his arm around and tries to look at what Kurt’s talking about. He rubs his hand over the mark absently.  
  
“You know how your parents always told you never to play ball in the house? This is why. You end up catching one and then smashing through a sliding glass door in the process,” Blaine laughs slightly, recalling the memory in his mind. “I got 22 stitches. It actually goes all the way up my shoulder and kinda onto my back.”  
  
Kurt’s mouth is completely dry and he’s not sure what the record is for longest period of time without blinking, but he has to be close. They’re still touching; thigh to thigh, hip to hip, elbow to elbow.  
  
Blaine leans forward, tries to contort his arm into somehow moving in a way to let him see the scar. “I actually forget I have it most of the time. I can’t see it and my jersey covers it anyway.”  
  
Kurt knows he shouldn’t ask, only very bad things will come of him asking. He keeps his mouth firmly shut, debating on whether or not to put his hand up to his mouth to help in the effort. But it’s really no use and the words are tumbling out before he can stop them.  
  
“Can I touch it?” he asks. His fingers are itching and all he’s thought about for the last four weeks is Blaine. Even when he tries not to, it can’t be helped. He’s there at home and he’s there on the field and he’s there at the beach. Even on days when Kurt starts, when his mind should be clear of everything besides his pitching, he still has Blaine there, sitting behind home plate and throwing down signs.  
  
Blaine looks at him with his eyebrows pressing together, a look of confusion and something else Kurt can’t read.  
  
“I guess so. It’s nothing special, you can barely even feel it.” Blaine reaches across his body with his other hand and bunches up his sleeve, revealing more of the scar, and more skin, to Kurt.  
  
Kurt lets one finger barely brush across the scar, his fingertip ghosting across Blaine’s skin. It’s warm, the sun now fully beating in through the window, but goosebumps pop up along Blaine’s skin and he shudders. Kurt puts a little more pressure down now, really feels the mark running along Blaine’s arm and up and under his shirt. Kurt wonders if his hand would fit into Blaine’s sleeve so he could follow the scar along its journey across Blaine’s shoulder and back.  
  
“Kurt.” And it’s not even like Blaine’s speaking, it’s like he’s breathing Kurt’s name.  
  
“Can I see the rest of it?” he asks, his eyes never leaving Blaine’s skin. It’s mesmerizing, how Blaine’s skin is so soft and tan, and how his scar just seems so out of place. He can’t stop touching, couldn’t even if he wanted to.  
  
There’s only a moments hesitation before Blaine’s grabbing at the hem of his shirt, lifting it up and over his head. He throws the discarded shirt off to the side, barely noticing that it lands where the couch meets the wall.  
  
This whole new expanse of skin is too much for Kurt to take in all at once. It’s everywhere and his eyes can’t decide where to look next, so they just seem to dart back and forth. He tries to drink everything in at once and then his eyes focus on the scar. It sweeps up Blaine’s arms and then curves downward across a small part of his shoulder and back. His lower arms are slightly darker than his chest and back, a sorry farm’s tan side effect from playing with a jersey on in the hot sun.  
  
His brain kick starts and Kurt puts his finger at the beginning of the scar, following it’s jagged line until the very end. Kurt can’t get over the muscles in Blaine’s back contorting, loosing and tightening with each breath he takes, the scar moving slightly with Blaine’s skin.  
  
Blaine suddenly turns to Kurt and they’re looking at each other face to face. Kurt can’t see the scar anymore, but his hand never leaves Blaine’s skin and it’s now pressed up against his chest, his fingers lightly tickling Blaine’s collarbone. Their legs are folded up like pretzels and their knees knock together with Blaine’s sudden movement.  
  
He can’t see Blaine’s eyes, the reflection bounces off of the TV and onto his glasses, only bright light staring back at Kurt. He can feel Blaine’s shallow breaths, Kurt’s hand rising and falling on Blaine’s chest with each one.  
  
“You know we can’t do this,” Blaine says and Kurt can barely hear him. There’s too much white noise playing in Kurt’s ears, a sure fire sign that his brain is going to short circuit any minute.  
  
“I know,” Kurt says simply before digging his nails into Blaine’s skin.  
  
And it’s like that’s all Blaine needs. He’s up quickly on his knees before Kurt knows what’s going on and he’s pushing Kurt back until he’s pressed up against the arm of the sofa. And then Blaine is kissing him, letting out the tension between them over the past few weeks. It’s like nothing Kurt’s ever felt before and he grabs onto Blaine’s side, needs to feel Blaine’s skin in his hands.  
  
He moves his kissing from Kurt’s lip down to his neck, equal parts teeth and lips. “I told you, I need to concentrate on baseball this summer. No distractions.” His voice is filled with anger and want and it’s the hottest thing Kurt’s ever heard. He kicks his legs out straight so Blaine can settle in on top of him, his bare skin meeting Kurt’s fabric covered chest.  
  
It’s not beautiful like Kurt pictured in his head so many times. It’s not slow and timid, shyly working their way up to kissing with open mouths. Blaine doesn’t take Kurt’s chin in his hand and cup it gently, angling it for the perfect way to fit their mouths together. It’s frustration and raw and so emotional that it kind of scares Kurt in the best possible way.  
  
Blaine’s back at Kurt’s lips, forcing them open with his tongue but Kurt opens them willingly. He’d had the random hook up in college, the token drunken night and the walk of shame the next morning. But this is like nothing he’s ever felt before. It feels like Blaine is desperate for him, like if he doesn’t kiss him right now, like this, then he’ll never get his chance again.  
  
“I can’t get you out of my head, do you realize that? You’re there all the time,” Blaine growls and Kurt can’t tell if he knows he’s speaking out loud. His forehead is resting against Kurt’s, dark curls getting caught in between. Kurt gasps with he feels Blaine hard against his hip, there’s no hiding it in the thin cotton of their pajama bottoms.  
  
“Blaine. God, me too. You’re always there, in the back of everything,” and Kurt doesn’t know if that actually makes sense, but he says it, can’t stop himself from saying it.  
  
They move slightly, Blaine sliding down and Kurt sliding up, and Kurt feels his eyes roll into the back of his head. They’re hard, they’re hard together, and nothing has ever felt like this. Kurt whines from the back of his throat, bubbling up and out of his mouth before he can stop it. He can’t do anything besides thrust up and hang on, try to keep grounded through this haze.  
  
Blaine grabs onto Kurt’s hips and just fucking  _grinds_  them together and Kurt knows that familiar sensation that builds up in the pit of his stomach and the bottom of his spine. He’s so desperate for it, so desperate for Blaine, that he doesn’t even try to hold back. The pleasure becomes too much too quickly, his eyes squeezing shut as he bites down onto his lip in an attempt to keep some of the noise inside. His hips finally still and his arms fall limply to his side.  
  
“Kurt, so fucking hot. Shit, I can’t,” and Kurt only has a moment to realize this is probably something he should open his eyes for, something that he doesn’t want to miss. Blaine’s face is beautiful when he loses control, his mouth open with no sounds coming out.  
  
He’s still holding onto Kurt’s hips, all of his weight resting on his arms and he starts to shake. Kurt scoots over so he’s laying on his side and Blaine collapses next to him, barely any room between them.  
  
When their breathing returns to normal, Kurt opens one eye to peak at Blaine. His curls are plastered to his forehead and he’s not wearing his glasses, although Kurt can’t for the life of him remember Blaine taking them off. He bites down on his lower lip, contemplating on what he could possibly say, what could come next after that.  
  
But it’s Blaine that speaks first.  
  
“So that was --” he starts and Kurt’s mind goes to a million different places.  _Horrible, awkward, never happening again._  
  
“-- pretty amazing,” Blaine finishes and Kurt breathes a sigh of relief. “But we can’t do that again. I mean, this is the most important thing in out lives right now. You know how many kids try out for the Cape? We have to concentrate on baseball, Kurt. No distractions. Deal?”  
  
And Kurt understands, really he does. He’s not going to be like one of his idiot teammates who falls in love with a local and lets his season go to shit. They only have three months to prove themselves, prove that they belong in the big leagues. The draft is coming up sooner than they want to admit and it should be the only thing on their minds. Kurt needs to block everything out.  _Curveball, fastball, splitter, cutter_  should be on repeat, not  _curly hair, hazel eyes, perfect smile_. Nobody is worth losing his future in baseball.  
  
Except maybe, he thinks, Blaine is.


	3. Chapter 3

The late July heat is oppressive during the game that night, the breeze off the ocean doing nothing to stop the humidity, and Kurt feels as if he’s sweating through his jersey.  The material clings to him at his neck, around his elbows, and he tries to shake it off.  The sun had dipped below the horizon over an hour before, and yet he still feels like it’s directly above him.  
  
The team’s up by a few runs in the 6th, Puck having hit a three-run home run two innings before.  With Kurt on the mound and a three run lead, the game is as good as over.  He and Blaine are in a great rhythm and even though he loves when Blaine calls for time and visits the mound, it’s not needed tonight.  They’re completely on the same page, Blaine dropping down signs and Kurt hitting them perfectly.  
  
  
  
  
It happens too quickly for Kurt to remember, really.  The last thing he remembers is staring in at Blaine behind home plate, reading his sign for a curveball on the inside of the plate.  He remembers peering over his glove, concentrating on hitting Blaine’s mitt.  He remembers tugging on the brim of his hat before gripping the ball tightly, ready to strike the batter out.  He remembers the ball leaving his hand as it made it’s way to home plate.  Remembers a blur of white and red coming back at him, and then he remembers falling.  
  
When he finally opens his eyes, he’s laying on the pitching mound, the brown clay digging into his elbows.  The big bright lights are right in his eyes as he stares up, but he can hear Blaine’s voice.  “Kurt, Kurt!  Are you okay?”  He recognizes the voices of his other teammates, his manager, a few of the trainers.  There is a pain sharper than anything he’s ever felt starting at his knee and traveling up his leg.  
  
“Come on, Hummel.  Don’t be such a fag.  Walk it off,” and Kurt knows without having to look that it’s Dave Karofsky, their first baseman.  Kurt visibly winces at Karofsky’s harsh words and he’s just glad he can play it off as the pain in his knee.  
  
“Shut the fuck up, Karofsky,” Blaine growls.  “He got hit with a come backer, asshole.  You saw how fast that ball came back at him.  It hit him right in the knee, it could be shattered.  So maybe it’s not a good idea if he  _walks it off_ , you fucking idiot,” sarcasm and anger dripping from his voice.  
  
“Whatever, I’m just saying he needs to stop being such a pussy and get up.  I got hit with a fuckin’ 95 mile an hour fastball between my shoulder blades two games ago and you didn’t see me laying on the ground,” Karofsky scoffs, almost as if he can’t believe Kurt is still laying on the ground.  
  
Blaine rips off his catcher’s mask and stands toe to toe with Karofsky, his catcher’s pads in between them.  “He can hear you, asshole.  He’ll get up when he can.  And if you ever call him a name like that again, you’re going to regret it.”  Kurt has never heard Blaine like this before.  Blaine has two tones of voice; nice and even nicer.  Kurt has never seen him as anything other than happy and easily excited, but when he glances up, he can see Blaine’s fists shaking at his side.  
  
Karofsky laughs, actually  _laughs_ , in Blaine’s face.  “I’d like to see you try,” and before Kurt knows what’s happening, Blaine is pushing at Karofsky’s chest and then their manager is holding them apart.  
  
“Anderson! Karofsky! What the fuck are you two thinking?  There are scouts in the stands!”  Tanaka yells, his body holding strong between Blaine and Karofsky.  “Get off the mound and back to your positions.  And don’t even think about doing anything like that again.”  
  
Kurt feels pressure underneath his arms as he’s lifted up by two of the trainers.  He puts his arms over each of their shoulders and limps over to the waiting ambulance.  
  
  
  
  
Kurt’s laying in bed, knee elevated and covered in ice, when he hears Blaine come down the stairs.  He has his bedside light on and is reading from a back issue of Vogue when Blaine walks into his room.  
  
“How’s your knee?” he asks softly, not coming in any further than the doorway.  
  
“It hurts, but nothing’s broken.  They said I have to miss my next start and use crutches for a few days, but I’ll be fine,” Kurt recites to him what he had heard from the doctors at the hospital.  
  
Blaine crosses into the room, fingers trailing along the wall and then over Kurt’s dresser.  He pauses and stares at Kurt’s bed, Kurt’s long body directly in the center.  
  
“You could have really gotten hurt,” Blaine says, voice just barely above a whisper.  “What if the ball smashed your knee?  What if it hit you just a few feet higher?”  His eyes won’t meet Kurt‘s, instead focusing on the wall behind Kurt’s bed.  
  
“I know,” Kurt says softly.  “You take the same chance every time you step into the batter’s box.”  
  
Blaine lets out a loud sigh, as if he’s trying to find the words he wants to say, but not succeeding.  
  
“Just -- be careful, okay?  Please?”  
  
Before Kurt can answer, Blaine turns and leaves the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.  
  
  
//  
  
He’s antsy, feet bouncing in the dugout, cleats getting caught in the dirt.  It’s been five days since he took the come-backer off his knee, he should be starting this game.  His body clock works in five day intervals and to be sitting on the bench and watching his teammate standing 60 feet and six inches away from home plate just feels wrong.  The only thing he can cling to is getting to watch Blaine without worrying about a three-one count or holding a runner on to first base.  
  
Kurt loves watching Blaine hit.  Toes lightly digging into the dirt, an old habit he told Kurt he picked up in high school.  He says it calms his nerves, concentrates him on the moment.  Blaine’s knees dip slightly, bat cocked up and behind his ear.  They use wooden bats in the Cape Cod League, different from the normal aluminum bats of college.  Blaine explained to Kurt he had to change his grip on the bat slightly, the smooth wood feeling different in his hand than the hard metal.  
  
The pitcher from Chatham is bent at his waist, looking down into his catcher for the signs.  He nods slightly and hurls the ball in at Blaine.  The ball arrives at home plate just beneath Blaine’s knee, the bat barely leaving his shoulder.  He hears a teammate call out, “good eye, Anderson!”  
  
Chatham’s catcher tosses the ball back to the pitcher’s mound.  The pitcher rolls the ball around in his glove before stepping on the white rubber.  This time when the ball gets to home plate, it’s in the middle of everything and Blaine swings through.  The crack of bat hitting ball fills Kurt’s ears and he watches as Blaine takes off, rounding first base before sliding in safely at second.  Blaine picks himself up, dusting off the rust colored dirt on his home whites.  He takes his batting gloves off and tucks them into his back pocket and Kurt lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.   
  
He glances up into the stands and sees all the scouts, black radar guns pointed towards the field.  The Major League Draft is in five days,  _fives days_ , and it’s causing a lot of guys to press at the plate.  The scouts jot down notes in their notebooks ( _power to the opposite field, quick bat, speed out of the box_ ) while Blaine takes his lead off of second base.  
  
Karofsky’s up next, the best hitter in their lineup.  Kurt always feels conflicted; he knows Karofsky hitting well means their team is winning ball games, but Kurt thinks that if Karofsky struck out every single time he went up to the plate, that would be okay, too.  
  
But he doesn’t strike out.  He connects on the first pitch he sees and sends the ball shooting into the outfield.  Blaine breaks for third base on contact and is on his way home when the Chatham centerfielder hits the cutoff man.  The second baseman relays the ball to the catcher who’s blocking the left side of home plate, but Blaine slides in safely to the right.  He’s up quickly, Finn patting him on the back as he steps up to the plate.  Kurt pointedly ignores Karofsky, standing on second base and clapping his hands together.  
  
Blaine grabs Karofsky’s bat from where it’s laying by the batter’s box and makes his way to the dugout.  He drops the bat at the foot of the dugout before taking off his helmet and making his way down to Kurt.  He slides in next to him, their shoulders bumping together.  Blaine grabs a paper cup filled with water and takes a sip before dumping the last of the water over his head.  Kurt grips his hands on the metal bench and quickly looks out at Finn fouling off a breaking ball.  
  
He hears Blaine sigh next to him as he looks up into the stands.  He eyes the scouts, their eyes locked in on their radar guns as the pitcher from Chatham winds up.  
  
“I’m so nervous about the draft,” Blaine confesses as Finn fouls a ball back into the stands.  Blaine’s eyes are darting back and forth, from one scout to another, wishing he could see what they were writing down in those notebooks.  
  
“You’ll be fine,” Kurt reassures him, his hand slowly moving to Blaine’s knee.  He lets it sit there briefly before letting go, remembering they’re in a dugout filled with teammates.  
  
“I hope so,” Blaine mumbles.  He grabs his shin guards that are sitting on the beach next to him and bends down to put them on.  He chest protector comes next, pulling it on over his head and tugging the straps until it’s tight.  
  
“One day when you win MVP, I’m going to be able to tell reporters, ‘I knew him way back when he was only a kid.  And his pitch calling was horrible.  Don’t know how I survived that summer’,” Kurt says lightly, smiling when Blaine’s face breaks out into a grin.  At the plate, Finn grounds out to the first baseman for the last out of the inning.  Blaine pops up, pulls his catcher’s mask down over his face and starts to make his way back to the field.  
  
He turns back quickly to tell Kurt, “and I’ll be able to tell reporters, “Kurt Hummel winning the Cy Young doesn’t surprise me at all.  He’s incredible and I taught him everything he knows’,” before rushing back onto the field.  
  
//  
  
Five days later they’re sitting in the Howel’s basement, their summer home, TV turned to ESPN2.  The baseball draft isn’t anywhere near as glamorous as the NFL or NBA draft, only the first few rounds even shown on TV.  Blaine has his laptop sitting on his knees, waiting to follow along online when ESPN stops airing the results.  He’s a bundle of nervous energy, jittery limbs and bitten fingernails.  
  
Kurt’s outwardly calm, mindlessly thumbing through a magazine he picked up from the kitchen table upstairs.  He wants to be calm for Blaine, but his insides feel like mush.  He’s not even sure he wants to be drafted, he can’t even imagine how Blaine is feeling; Blaine, who has worked every day since he was eight with the goal of playing for a big league team in mind.  Late practices, taking extra ground balls, staying and hitting the batting cages after everyone else on the team had gone home.  
  
They recognize a few names from the Cape League go in the first round; a pitcher from Hyannis, a left fielder from Bourne, a short stop from Falmouth.  They know getting drafted is a reality, the kids they’ve played against all summer have already started getting picked, and Blaine seems to be only breathing once every few minutes.  
  
The first round is over, all thirty picks gone, and it’s only a quick break before round two starts up.  
  
It hits Kurt like a train when it actually happens.  He remembers with stunning clarity that the article he’s reading is about the Royal Wedding, about Kate Middleton’s wedding dress.  He remembers that Blaine is toying with the remote, flipping it from his right hand to his left.  He remembers that even though it’s windy outside, the curtains on the window are still.  
  
“With the forty-third pick of the 2011 draft, the Texas Rangers select Blaine Anderson, catcher, Ohio State University.”  
  
Kurt stares at Blaine, Blaine staring at the TV.  He hears their host parents shout upstairs and Blaine’s phone rings almost immediately.  On the TV they’ve already moved on to the next pick.  
  
Shaking himself out of his haze, Kurt claps Blaine on the shoulder and squeezes.  It seems to jerk Blaine back to reality, his head snapping to Kurt.  
  
“You did it, Blaine!” Kurt says, trying to be excited for him.  This is what Blaine wants and that should be enough.  
  
Blaine nods dumbly, his mouth hanging open slightly.  His phone stops ringing for only a few seconds before starting up again.  
  
“Is this really happening?” Blaine mutters and Kurt can’t tell if Blaine’s actually asking him or just thinking out loud.  
  
“Of course it is!  I’m so proud of you.  And The Rangers!  Back in a blue and red uniform,” Kurt tries to joke, remembering stories on the beach that Blaine told him about high school.  
  
“I should probably call my parents?”  Kurt’s not sure why Blaine’s phrased it as a question, but he can’t imagine how overwhelmed Blaine must be.  Kurt tries to think about what his reaction will be if he gets drafted.  He’ll call his dad, for sure.  He’ll probably have to talk to an agent if he’s drafted in the next few rounds.  His teammates will probably want to celebrate with a bonfire on the beach tonight.  
  
But it doesn’t happen.  Fifty rounds of draft picks and not one team calls Kurt’s name.  He knows, logically, that it was a long shot anyway.  There are thousands of kids across the country who are eligible for the draft, and only a small number get chosen.  But he also knows who scouts the draft picks.  And even though he’s sure none of his friends back home would out him, he knows that it’s old men from the middle of the country who are reporting back to the owners of the teams about which kids to pick. ( _“He’s soft, if you know what I mean,” “Not sure he can handle the pressure of the big leagues,” “He wouldn‘t be good for clubhouse chemistry,” “The kid’s a decent pitcher, I’m just worried about his make up as a ball player.”_ )  Kurt realizes that it’s not just about talent.  He could be the next Nolan Ryan but those scouts see the way he talks and acts and that’s the only thing that matters.  
  
After the last draft pick is chosen, Kurt sits quietly on the couch.  Blaine is still sitting next to him, and even though Kurt reassured him a hundred times it was okay to leave the room and talk to the people who were trying to get in touch with him, Blaine insisted on staying.  He said he wanted to be the first person to congratulate Kurt on getting drafted.  
  
“I’m sorry, Kurt,” Blaine says.  
  
“Don’t be sorry.  You got drafted,” Kurt replies humorlessly.  
  
“I know.  But, I’m just sorry, okay?  And there’s always next year, right?”  If anyone else had told him that, if anyone had the nerve to tell him to wait until next year, Kurt would have lost it.  But Blaine truly means it, means it in only the best way possible and is honestly just trying to make Kurt feel better.  
  
“Yeah, next year.”  Kurt replies.  Blaine’s cell phone goes off again, the theme song to SportsCenter cutting through the tension in the room.  “You should probably answer that.”  
  
Blaine knows enough not to apologize again, to not apologize for something he wants and for something he’s worked so hard for.  So he just looks at Kurt, his eyes reading  _I am so so sorry that you’re hurting_  before picking up the phone and walking into his bedroom.  He shuts the door behind him, but Kurt swears he can still hear Blaine talking about signing bonuses and Texas in the summer and leaving Ohio far far behind.  
  
//  
  
  
They’re almost out the door, relaxed in a way a baseball player can only be when they know they’re out of the playoffs, that their season is coming to a close.  They’ve got a few more games that don’t matter; everyone knowing whether they got drafted or if they’re going back for another year of school.  Cotuit finishes with a winning record, but just barely.  Falmouth and Wareham make it to the playoffs in their division and while Kurt’s vaguely upset at missing the playoffs, the experience as a whole was great even if he didn’t get drafted.  He pitched against some of the best college players in the country and did better than anyone expected.  
  
Blaine’s hands are full, towels and a cooler in one hand, beach chairs in the other.  He stops short, his hip making contact with the screen door that leads out to the yard and down to the driveway.  
  
“Kurt, you mind grabbing my wallet?  I think it’s on my night stand.  I’ll throw this stuff in the car,” Blaine calls to Kurt who’s in the kitchen grabbing a few bottle of water for them.  Blaine’s already stepping outside so Kurt doesn’t bother calling anything back.  He quickly bounces down the stairs, takes a quick left into Blaine’s room.  His eyes scan the room and he sees Blaine’s wallet sitting on top of his copy of  _Moneyball_.  He grabs the brown leather and is about to go back upstairs when he sees a bit of paper sticking out from inside the book, the top printed with an address he recognizes.  
  
The paper is sort of crinkled but Kurt can clearly see MapQuest printed on the top.  He takes a closer look at the paper and sees what Blaine printed out the directions for.   
  
 _Ohio State University **to**  University of Cincinnati  -   1 hour 53 minutes / 108.52 miles_  
  
Kurt stares at the paper, the blue line crisscrossing across the state of Ohio.  His mind is blank, not believing that Blaine has mapped out the route from one school to the other.  His hands are shaking just slightly as he grips the paper.  He vaguely hears the stairs creaking, Blaine’s voice calling down and asking where Kurt is.  Blaine’s out of breath when his head pops into the doorway.  
  
“Hey, did you get lost?” his eyes bright, his voice full of humor.  He stops short when he sees the stark white paper in Kurt’s hand.  
  
“Why?” is the only word Kurt can muster at the moment.  His head is swimming with possibilities.   _Does this mean Blaine’s going back to school?_  and  _maybe he printed it out before he got drafted_.  
  
Blaine sighs, opens his mouth before shutting it again.  
  
“Everything I ever wanted in life, I got,” Blaine starts.  “When I wanted to make the varsity baseball team when I was a freshman in high school, I did it.  I wanted to be the starting catcher for Ohio State, I worked harder than everyone else and made the line up.  When I heard about the Cape League, I practiced late every single day and tried harder than anyone else on my team when I knew there were scouts in the stands,” he takes a deep breath, moving a few feet closer to Kurt.  
  
“And then I met you.  We ran into each other that first day and it was like an instant connection.  I don’t know if you felt it”, Kurt almost laughs as Blaine continues, “but I did.  And then I got to know you and learned how amazing you are.  I wanted to make myself believe that I wasn’t falling for you.  And I kept telling myself that this summer wasn’t for that.  This summer was about impressing big league scouts and getting drafted and nothing getting in my way.  And I wanted to keep you off of my mind, to push aside my feelings for you.  I wanted to make myself believe that I didn’t have feelings for you.  I mean, I didn’t except to meet someone so absolutely perfect this summer.”  Blaine’s now standing directly in front of Kurt, hands looped around his waist.  Kurt’s trying to form words, his mouth opening and then shutting when he brain stays empty.  It’s too much to take in all at once, to hear Blaine tell him everything he’s wanted for three months.  
  
“Kurt, I’m going back to school.  I didn’t accept Texas’s offer,” Blaine tells him, looks him right in the eyes.  Kurt’s head is swimming and he feels a little light headed, the words he wants to say getting caught between his mouth and his brain.  
  
“But Blaine, all you wanted was to get drafted,” Kurt finally manages to say, still not quite believing what Blaine told him.  
  
Blaine shrugs lightly, his arms still wrapped around Kurt’s waist.  “I’m only going to be a sophomore when we get back to school.  I have three years to get better and maybe get drafted higher.  I still get to play baseball.  Getting drafted was what I wanted when the summer started; you’re what I want now.”  Kurt closes his eyes and takes a quick breath in.  He wants to believe Blaine, wants to believe him so badly.  
  
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice full of nerves.  
  
“I already told the Rangers no, that I’m going back to school.  I told them last week, Kurt.  It’s final.”  
  
And Kurt can only think of one thing to do.  He wraps his arms around Blaine’s shoulders and pulls him in for a kiss, Blaine meeting him halfway.  Blaine tries to deepen this kiss, licks across Kurt’s lips and into his mouth, but Kurt can’t stop  _smiling_.  Blaine pulls back with a questioning look on his face and Kurt just laughs and presses fast, light kisses across his lips.  
  
“I’m sorry, I’m just so happy,” Kurt explains and Blaine grins back.  
  
They both stumble over to Blaine’s bed, kicking off their flip flops in the process.  They fall onto their sides, arms wrapped around each other and lips everywhere.  Blaine is impatiently tugging Kurt’s shirt up, while trying to pull his swim trunks down.  Kurt laughs lightly and stills Blaine’s hands, pulling off his own shirt and bathing suit while Blaine does the same.  They’re back together quickly and Kurt gasps because the time on the couch was nothing like this.  Blaine’s mouthing at his neck, sucking slightly and running his tongue over the skin when it starts to get too red.  They’re naked and hard and pressing together everywhere and Kurt can’t stop shaking.  
  
“I tried to imagine never kissing you again, never touching you again,” Blaine gasps in between kisses, reaching down to grab Kurt’s dick, gripping tightly.  Kurt’s eyes squeeze shut and he slams his hips forward.  
  
“I couldn’t do it, Kurt,” Blaine continues, stroking harder.  “I couldn’t _not_  be with you.”  
  
Kurt whines and blindly reaches his hand down to wrap around Blaine.  He’s close already;  Blaine’s hands and Blaine’s kisses and Blaine’s words.  He tightens his grip around Blaine’s cock, fast and a little rough but it’s exactly what they both need.  
  
Their kisses have mostly dissolved in to open mouth breathing across each other’s cheeks, lips, neck, chest.  Kurt can’t really say his orgasm catches him by surprise, but when the head of his dick accidentally bumps up against Blaine’s hip, that’s it, he is so fucking done.  He lets out a sharp cry, digs his nails into Blaine’s shoulder with his free hand as he comes all over both of them.  
  
“Kurt, you’re so fucking hot -- I can’t,” Blaine says his eyes snapping shut as he lets out the most amazing sounds Kurt has ever heard.  He rocks into Kurt’s hand for what feels like forever until his hips finally come to a stop.  
  
“I’m so glad we’ll be doing that over and over and over again,” Blaine says, a sleepy but completely happy smile on his face.  Kurt nudges him in the shoulder, but smiles too.  
  
“Come on, we did have plans to go to the beach, ya know.  It’s going to be our last time there before everyone starts heading home.”  
  
  
  
The beach is mostly empty all afternoon for them, the end of August meaning less tourists as school starts back up.  Most of their teammates are in the water having a blast with the rough waves due to a storm out at sea, white caps breaking across their backs and shoulders.  Blaine and Kurt are sitting just close enough together, backs up against a rickety fence where they first sat down all those months ago.  Blaine’s drawing designs in the sand with a twig he found; a baseball, the Indian’s mascot, and more than a few hearts.  
  
“Ya know, the first time Ohio plays Cincinnati is April 4th,” Blaine tells him, toes digging into the sand.  “It’s a Tuesday.”  
  
Kurt tries to keep the shock off his face, wondering when Blaine would have even thought to look that up.  Kurt didn‘t even know the schedule was finished for next season.  “Well, if I’m starting, don’t think I’ll go easy on you.”  
  
“I caught you for three months.  I know how that mind works.  Fastball, fastball, splitter in the dirt, change-up,” Blaine says with a smile on his face.  
  
“Hey, you’re the one who called for those pitches!” Kurt says a little loudly, pretending to be angry.  “I’m going to tell my teammates all of your weaknesses.  That you can’t hit a high and tight fastball to save you life.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure I have bigger weaknesses than that,” Blaine says, hooking a bare ankle around Kurt’s.  Kurt’s cheeks color just slightly and it’s easy enough to blame it on the August heat.  
  
They lie back, feet and shoulders and hips digging into the sand.  Blaine is humming something that reminds Kurt of ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and Kurt can only think how fitting it is that the summer is ending where it all began, their toes in the sand and their backs to the boardwalk.  And how he can’t wait for spring.


End file.
